The Story of Resident Evil Game One
by RainChild1
Summary: This is a story version of the game. I wasn't happy with my original story, A Resident Evil Story Book One, so I deleted it and did a better one. Different from the novels, helpful if you can't beat the game. Please R&R.
1. The Case

The Story of Resident Evil 

(Game One)  
  
_Author's Notes:_  Okay, okay, I know I'm too much of a perfectionist, but I simply wasn't happy with my original work, "Resident Evil Plotline."  So, I had to rework it... it was either that or go insane, and fun as insanity is, those gray jackets they give you at the hospital never fit right.  The sleeves are always WAY too long, and you have to tie the cuffs behind your back to keep them out of the way.  So, enjoy!  I'm going to have to erase the old one to avoid SPAM—fair warning!  Oh, yeah: * * * denotes the beginning/end of a flashback.  And by the way, seeing as I don't have a Game Cube and will probably never be able to afford one, this is based on the original first game, not the new release.

_CAUTION:_  If you know every single word of either the game or the novels by Stephani Danielle Perry, you may get a little bored, but not much.  My (new) story is designed to be different from the books, as well as fledge out the plot of the game, so you won't feel too much like "I've read this before—one thousand times," but don't blame me if you know the story of the game so well you get unhappy with this.  Anyway, I've tried to stay away from the ideas in the novels, just borrow a few, so I hope it doesn't happen... if you're still interested after the first few chapters, keep reading, okay?

_Disclaimers:_  I don't own Resident Evil or anything else copyrighted mentioned within.  
  
Chapter One  
_The Case_

            Jill Valentine was soaking in a warm bathtub full of bubbles, trying to release the stress and strain of the day.  She'd poured over the case files on the cannibal murderers until her head had been ready to explode, but she'd found nothing new, and neither had the other members of S.T.A.R.S.

            She shook her head, sliding down deeper in the water.  The death toll was close to a dozen by now, not counting a few missing hikers who'd snuck past the police blockades in the Arklay Mountains, looking for thrills.  The Raccoon Police Department had feared something along those lines might occur, ever since Raccoon Weekly had published an article about possible "monsters" in the mountain forest, and saying things like "looking for adventure?  Check it out!"  The three teenagers hadn't been seen in almost two weeks… and, with each passing day, Jill was afraid that when the S.T.A.R.S. did find them, they'd be just as dead as every other person who'd traveled into the mountains recently.

            Jill shuddered, rubbing her arms beneath the warm water's surface.  The murders were definitely the most bizarre ones she'd heard of since Charles Manson's day:  bloody, mutilated bodies had been turning up, covered in multiple slashing wounds.  Dead tissue had been dropped upon the victims' bodies—which was something criminal profilers called "signatures" of the perpetrators, marking each crime like a trademark—and, worst of all, every victim had been partially devoured, bite patterns formed by both human and canine jaws.

            The S.T.A.R.S.—also known as the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad, an elite law enforcement unit—had been assigned to the case less than a month ago, and out of the eleven highly-capable men and women, not one extra thing had been uncovered on the criminals.

_            Chris Redfield, though..._

            Jill sighed. Chris was probably the closest thing she had to a friend on the S.T.A.R.S. so far; he'd been talkative since she'd made the transfer to Raccoon City, going out of his way to make her feel welcome. He had several good theories on the murders, and the two of them had discussed them all, hanging out at either his apartment or hers, staying late at the station, going to the shooting range or even out to dinner (which felt suspiciously like dating). All of his ideas were admittedly good, but every plan he came up with had one major flaw: Umbrella, Incorporated.  
  
* * * 

            "They have to know something," Chris insisted, looking up from the files spread around Chris's kitchen table.

            Jill fought back a sigh, hoping he wasn't going to start on the Umbrella Corporation again.  No such luck.

            "I'll bet you my next three paychecks there's someone in that organization who knows what's really going on," Chris continued.

            Jill expended nearly all her will power not to stare at him like he was a mental patient in desperate need of forgotten medication.  "Chris, Umbrella is the main source of prosperity in Raccoon.  They supply three-fourths of the jobs.  Since the murders started, people have been moving, leaving town—Umbrella's losing a lot of cash in a town they practically built themselves!  If they knew _ANYTHING,_ they would come to the police."

            Chris leaned forward, staring at her earnestly.  Whatever will power she had left went towards not leaning away; he was a good cop, and was becoming a great friend; she didn't want to ruin the chance at a friendly professional relationship by getting it into her head he was also pretty damned good-looking—and very single.

            "Jill, listen.  Remember how I told you about that mansion in the woods?  It was the perfect place for the killers to hide, for their base of operations, and it's been boarded up for years—"

            "Umbrella sent someone out there, Chris.  Chief Irons was told it was secure, no break-ins," Jill interrupted patiently.  What was he getting at?

            Chris shoved a map of the blockades set up around the forest at her.  "I know, Jill.  But in two months, this representative from Umbrella has been the only one to enter the forest area without ending up dead or missing.  Including that one cop—the guy had a gun, Jill!  And this rep, this _civilian_ from Umbrella, he moseys past the police guarding the mountain pass—who let him walk in ALONE without a second thought—then he walks straight off to the mansion three miles away, checks it all out, notes it secure, and doesn't see a goddamn thing?  Jill, _everyone_ who's gone in those woods is now dead. Unless by some chance those idiot hikers who snuck in are still in one piece. There aren't any roads; any representative from Umbrella would have been walking.  And, look—the cops have been ordered to let no one past the blockade."

            "So?  Maybe Irons ordered him to be permitted..." Jill began, but she knew she didn't sound very convincing; Chris was finally giving her something to think about.

            He shook his head, grinning, and leaned back in his chair, looking a bit satisfied that his theory was sinking in.  "No.  If that guy had died, it would have been on Irons' head.  From a political standpoint, that would have been stupid, and politics is about the only time the moron uses his brain.  Irons would have at least ordered an escort.  The only other angle is this guy _snuck_ into the woods.  Which I doubt, obvious reasons—trespassing charges, killers on the loose.  Either the guy's dead and Irons is keeping it a secret for his own sake, or there never was anyone representing Umbrella who went to check out that mansion."

            "What if the guy _is_ dead?" Jill wanted to know.

            "Then there's no way they could know the mansion was secure.  And I don't think it could have been kept from the press—cops couldn't keep their mouths shut the last three dead bodies, so why would they now?  The police have strict orders not to go far enough into the woods to even have been near the house; they'd have found his corpse in the outskirts.  Besides, if he's missing, Umbrella should be in an uproar.  Should be reporting him gone like the hikers.

            "Jill, they KNOW something. They KNOW what's going on."  
  
* * *

            Jill sighed again, blowing foamy bubbles onto her bathroom floor. Umbrella's lying made no economic sense.  Not that the case made any sense at all, either.  And as far as economic intelligence... well, the mansion itself had entirely blown that.  It had been built by Lord Oswald Spencer, one of the founders of the Umbrella corporation.  Originally, it was supposed to have been a mountainous retreat for top executives of the growing company, though there was talk at the time it might have become the Umbrella Head Quarters.  Then it had been boarded up not long after it was finished, for no real reason besides a whim of Spencer's.  Even though Umbrella could probably have handled the loss of cash, the whole thing was about as logical financially as the theory of Chris's...  
  
* * *  
  


            Angela Cortez, a tall Hispanic woman, strolled into the S.T.A.R.S. office, a bunch of papers and a magazine in her hand.  The Alpha Team, consisting of Joseph Frost, Brad Vickers, Barry Burton, Captain Wesker, Chris, and Jill, were the only branch of the S.T.A.R.S. on duty.  "Hey, guys," Angela called.

            "Doll Face," Joseph said, blowing her a kiss.

            Angela promptly threw up her middle finger, scowling.  Jill raised an eyebrow at Chris; Angela was typically a sweet person.  "Joseph's ex," Chris whispered to her with a wink.  That explained it.  Joseph hit on anything that was female and human, those being his only two requirements; but Angela was probably a desirable catch for half the cops in the building.  She was pretty, tough, and more competent than a lot of the police officers; the S.T.A.R.S. members—even Wesker—sometimes asked her to do research on a case, or give her advice on procedure.  Barry had asked her to "keep her eyes peeled" around the case files a while back.

            "I got the information you wanted," Angela told them.  "On the mansion."  Barry, Chris, Jill and Joseph gathered around her eagerly.  Brad didn't look up; he was trying to fix the old communication system again.  Wesker, however, glanced up from his desk, frowning.  Chris had pitched the theory that the killers might be using the mansion as a base of operation to the captain, but Wesker hadn't bought it, and looked displeased that Chris hadn't ignored the idea as Wesker had suggested.

            "It was contracted to be built by the Spencer guy back in the early to mid-sixties, yes," Angela continued, confirming what they'd already learned.  "Spencer was, however, a total kook, just like the co-founder, Ashford.  Probably bipolar, but I doubt people really acknowledged the disease back then, definitely not in rich, publicly-recognized people like Spencer.  He was always sure the FBI was after him or something.  Set up all kinds of booby traps and mechanical puzzles like the kind of bad horror film you see on Mystery Science Theatre.  Even created some kind of freakily-designed exit at the back door, so no one could get out without special keys.  He was going to do the same thing with the front entrances, but he closed the place up, no explanation as to why, before he could.  He went off to build some facility in Europe, the Umbrella Headquarters in Paris, I think, and was rarely seen after that. Some people speculated his departure was due to the fact that the architect who built the place—George Trevor, he helped build the police station, the clock tower, and that stupid gate on the way to City Hall—and the booby traps as well, disappeared rather mysteriously.  They found his corpse in a cave in the Arklay Mountains about six years later.  If Spencer was as crazy as he seemed, it's no wonder.  Probably wanted the only other person who knew the mansion's secrets dead, and took off when someone got too close to finding out he'd offed Trevor."

            "Can you say 'Prozac'?" Jill joked.

            They laughed.  Wesker cleared his throat, frowning over at them still.  "Anyway," Angela said hastily, "I found some floor plans of the mansion.  And, Chris?  I think you were right."  She was whispering now, hoping that Wesker wouldn't hear.  "I doubt the mansion's boarded up.  I called up, and asked about the place.  Something tells me there's more than meets the eye."

            "Strange they'd say anything to the Raccoon City Chief of Police's personal secretary," Wesker said loudly, obviously irritated.  Even Brad was paying attention now, peering at the other Alphas from beneath the communication panel.

            "Ah, but I wasn't a bloody secretary, chum," she said, instantly adopting an exaggerated English accent.  "I was a British realtor, looking to buy the old place for a client who admired quaint country charm and the mountains.  Lady who answered the phone seemed to think she didn't really know if it was condemned or not, then.  Went to get her supervisor and I hung up."

            "That doesn't mean anything," Brad cut in suddenly. He flushed as all eyes turned on him.  He was basically a shy, quiet, cowardly guy who didn't look as though he was brave enough to be a door-to-door salesman, let alone a member of the Alphas.  "I mean, you said you were a realtor, right?  Maybe... maybe she thought if she'd said it was a piece of shit, you wouldn't be interested in buying the place."

            "I'm not so sure it isn't worth checking out," Chris said stubbornly.  "Even if they thought she was a potential buyer, it would be a huge liability to say something contrary to what they told the cops."  Barry nodded agreement.  Jill thought Brad had a point, but even the suggestion that the mansion was in decent condition was worth checking out.

            Brad quickly threw himself back under the communication panel, muttering about how Richard Aiken had some explaining to do on the screwed-up wires (though he sounded about as threatening as a two-year-old). "Brad's right," Wesker said, returning his sunglass-covered eyes to the mounds of paperwork lying in orderly stacks on his desk. "Realtors won't buy a condemned mansion, Angela."

            She rolled her eyes as soon as she was sure he wasn't looking. (She probably got a lot of practice with that; she was, after all, Chief Irons' personal secretary.) Then she handed Chris some of the papers. "Here. Floor plans, courtesy of _Architectural Digest_ magazine."

            She left.  
  
* * * 

            Jill hadn't noticed how long she'd been in the bathtub until the water was cold and most of the bubbles were gone. She quickly scrubbed her hair and skin and got out, wrapping her body in a towel. Her thoughts turned to just a few hours ago, when the eleven S.T.A.R.S. had been confronted by that fat, asinine blowhard who was Chief of Police.  
  
* * *

            "I think it's time to send Bravo team in," Chief Irons said.  "There's no need to postpone the search; no reason we shouldn't try to find the missing hikers with another sweep, to double-check," he'd said, lifting his double chin arrogantly.  "They can set down in the northeast section of the forest and search on foot."

            The others were outraged.  There were dozens of reasons, the others protested (especially the Alphas), why the Bravos shouldn't go traipsing about the forest alone. The Bravos consisted of Enrico Marini, Forest Speyer, Richard Aiken, Kenneth Sullivan, Edward Dewey, and Rebecca Chambers. Rebecca was only eighteen, and had never been on a field mission. Richard still hadn't fixed the communication system. Kenneth was supposed to be looking through the forensic reports, seeing if his chemical expertise could help him spot something the RPD had missed.  Not to mention the number of deaths, the violent nature of the attacks, the fact that little was known about the perpetrators, and that earlier fly-bys of the area had produced no information on the missing and studies tended to show that people missing for as long as the hikers had been tended to _stay_ missing. Irons wouldn't hear any of it, and, surprisingly enough, Wesker seemed to agree; he didn't even look pissed off. "Bravo should set down first, and they can always call in the Alphas as backup.  The Alphas can do a search of their own if the less-experienced S.T.A.R.S. find nothing."

            "We've already found nothing," Joseph muttered. "Several times." He didn't look any happier than the rest of them, though he'd kept insisting they still search the forest zone for the hikers, not wanting to give up. Most of the S.T.A.R.S. were in agreement that the lost group of teenagers who'd ignored the warning about the murders and snuck past the blockades set up by the Raccoon Police Department would probably be a better task at this point for the other cops; the S.T.A.R.S. were better trained for this type of case, and the search was becoming futile. There wasn't much in the way of crime in Raccoon other than the multiple murders, and the police would have much better luck on a search-and-rescue mission anyway, than on a case they'd been unable to solve or even slow in months and had done a lot of tiring work on already. The RPD wasn't going anywhere in the murders, and the S.T.A.R.S. weren't finding much else on the hikers; time to switch tasks. It was obvious to everyone but Irons. Great.

            Chris tried the Umbrella mansion tactic again. "Sir, couldn't they at least start the search from the mansion? It's nearly in the center of the attacks."

            Irons glared at him. Irons downright hated Chris, and it showed. Not that Chris cared. He had about as much respect for Irons as the Palestinians had for the Israelis. Irons didn't like anyone who let it show they were smarter than him, and many people had had such an opportunity. One such person was Chris.

            "Umbrella gave me their word of honor it's boarded up, Redfield," he snapped. "Go babble your cloak-and-dagger theories to someone who's dumb enough to give a shit."

            Irons turned and left. "'Dumb enough to give a shit'?" Chris mocked. "The guy must have a lot of problems with diarrhea, then."

            They had chuckled at the time, but Jill had definitely felt laughing wasn't a good idea. If anything happened to the Bravos, she'd shove her S.T.A.R.S. badge up the incompetent Chief's ass.  
  
* * *

            Jill had been blow-drying her hair when the phone rang, and had barely heard it. She switched off the hairdryer and picked it up right before the machine answered. "Hello?"

            "Jill?" It was Chris. And he sounded upset. "Get your ass to the station, fifteen minutes or less."

            "Uh, okay," she muttered. Then to Chris she said, "What's going on? Did I forget Brad's birthday? Cuz I really don't—"

            Chris's words made her blood run cold. "It's the Bravos, Jill. They've disappeared."  
  
End Chapter One  
Well? Whatcha think? E-mail me at raingoddess_47@hotmail.com if you don't have an account… or if you just want to make my life brighter with an e-mail. I welcome any praise, flames, comments or criticism, or even all three. Someone reviewed my Everworld fic and his constructive criticism really helped. I don't care what your verdict on my fic is; I just want to write the best stories possible, and input is what makes that happen. I'll reply to all reviews and e-mails, but it may take me a while. Don't worry, though—I'll get back to you.  
Peace, Harmony and Video Games,  
Rain Child


	2. The Discovery

Chapter Two  
_The Discovery_

Chris Redfield was practically shaking with rage as he helped Barry and Wesker load the Alphas' helicopter. He'd known, deep in his gut, that something would go wrong with Irons' plan, and at the Bravos' expense. If anything had happened to the Bravos, he'd have to beat out the other five Alphas to get at Irons, too, before they waylaid the shit out of the good parts of Irons' hide.

         He smiled, calming a little at the thought. The Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. had been hand-picked by Captain Wesker, and every last one of them were people he'd want backing him up. Well, except for maybe Brad...

         He sighed, knowing he shouldn't think lowly of a teammate and unable to help it anyway. Brad "Chicken Heart" Vickers was one of the biggest wimps Chris had ever met, and it was somewhat frightening to realize his life might one day depend on Vickers's capability. Sure, the guy was bright, a graduate from one of the best universities in the world. Sure, Chris had never seen a better hacker in action. But Vickers was the kind of person who probably slept with a nightlight on; and at the moment, sitting in the cockpit of the Alphas' helicopter, Brad looked ready to puke.

         Chris shook his head, turning his thoughts to the mission. If Vickers threw up, that was his problem. All Chris cared about was the Bravos, and getting them back alive. Joseph had sounded almost frantic when he'd called Chris earlier. Joseph and Wesker had been at the communication system in the police station's S.T.A.R.S. office, listening as Richard Aiken, the team's expert on radio equipment, had relayed the Bravos' progress. Someone had screamed in the background, Joseph had told him, and then there were the words "Oh, shit!" and "Mayday!" before the entire link just went to static. It didn't sound good. Angela Cortez had said the police chief was distinctly "not happy," and had given the Alphas the go-ahead for the rescue attempt.

         _No,_ Chris told himself. Not attempt. _We're gonna find the Bravos, no matter how many cannibals we gotta kill to do it._

_         And maybe then we can all bust up Irons anyway._

         Chris could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins already, ready to kick ass. It was a feeling he'd grown up with, though in mild doses as an athlete in high school—football, track, pole-vaulting. He'd become accustomed to it long before his mediocre grades and awesome athletics had attracted an Air Force recruiter when he was eighteen, urging him to join up. Chris had adored the Force, actually, but when a friend of his and two other guys hadn't made it from behind enemy lines, Chris had disobeyed orders to go back and save them. Three lives rescued, but his jerk-off of a C.O. (AN:  commanding officer) had gotten him court-marshaled for it (partially because he'd punched out the C.O. before he left), and Chris ended up being honorably discharged. Then, a year later, Barry Burton had led him to the S.T.A.R.S. special unit in Pennsylvania, and about a month ago, they'd been selected for the cannibal murders case in Raccoon City. He lived for the Job, for being with S.T.A.R.S.; the only thing that mattered outside of it was Claire, his younger sister, and he didn't want his team in danger any more than he would want it for Claire; he was fiercely loyal to her. When he was only twelve, some kid had pulled her hair, and Chris had punched his lights out. Though Claire had given the kid an elbow in the ribs and a kick to the groin...

         _Same sentiment, different method..._

         Chris smiled thinly, running a hand over the cool metal Beretta nine-millimeter in his hand. It was custom-made for the S.T.A.R.S. by a friend of Barry's who owned a gun shop in town, Robert Kendo. Kendo had showed Chris a few of the basics of being a gun-smith, but Chris had never been great at it. Jill could properly formulate gunpowder a lot better, _just one of her many talents..._

         Chris sighed, holstering the handgun. As the S.T.A.R.S. helicopter flew towards the area where they'd last heard the Bravos' signal, only one thing could overpower the time-to-kick-ass excitement in his system—hormones. Like the chemical rush of adrenaline, his chemical rush of being girl-crazy had increased since high school football, too. Jill was a great woman, even though her youth had been... misspent. She was a tough, smart, highly-qualified S.T.A.R.S. operative—

_         Admit it, Redfield. She's hot, too._

         Chris couldn't completely suppress the grin of idiocy that came to his face. It wasn't that he was some obsessive testosterone type; he wasn't ruled by his hormonal urges, he just didn't ignore them, either. And Jill was an incredible person. Maybe once the case was solved...

_         Case. Oh, yeah._

         He chuckled at his idiot mental processes. Those had probably increased a lot since school, too—

         "Chris, have you found it yet?" Wesker said, his voice rather stern.

         "No, I haven't found it yet," he replied, sighing and raising the high-powered binoculars to his eyes. _Quit goofing off,_ he told himself.

         Jill gave him a strange look. Her hair was slightly damp, and he could smell a light scent of strawberry or maybe cherry shampoo. She smiled at him a little, grabbing her own pair of binoculars and scanning the horizon to the right.

         "Anything?" she asked.

         "Nope."

         "Hmm." Suddenly she nearly dropped the binoculars. "Look, Chris!" she exclaimed, pointing far right.

         He swallowed. A large plume of oily smoke was wafting towards the darkening sky.

         "Shit," he murmured, even as Brad turned the 'copter. It wasn't too much of a crash, if that was what the smoke meant (and probably did). He'd seen quite a few nice helicopters and planes bite the dust in the Air Force; definitely no explosions, and probably nothing life-threatening. He repeated his thoughts aloud to the others. "It looks more like a radiator overheating," he added, though that didn't sound quite right. His skills were more about marksmanship and piloting, not  auto mechanics.

         "I doubt that's what happened," Joseph replied. Though Joseph didn't have a pilot's license, he was the Alpha's vehicle specialist, and knew the mechanics of everything from go-carts to tanks just as well as Barry knew handguns to bazookas. "You're right, though—don't think the gas tank's blown, nothing major."

         "It's not the helicopter crash I'm worried about," Wesker said grimly. "It's whatever's in those woods that's killed every other person to set foot in Raccoon Forest."

         "Thank you, Mr. Optimism," Jill muttered.

         Chris sighed.

         He un-holstered the Beretta.  
  
Ending notes: I want reviews and e-mails, guys! Please?


	3. Into the Mansion

Chapter Three  
_Into the Mansion_

Barry Burton stared in disbelief. They had found the Bravos' helicopter.

            It was empty.

            The oily smoke was beginning to dissipate, but the smell had been strong enough to lead Wesker, Jill, Joseph, Barry, and Chris to the Bravos' 'copter in record time; it had been in a clearing not far from where Brad had set down. One rail of the chopper was off the ground a few inches, the other rail sunk into the dirt. A quick examination from Joseph that Barry hadn't listened to confirmed that it was only a minor problem with the engine, and that Forest Speyer probably could have had the Bravos in the air in a few moments if he'd tried. But Forest and the others were gone. Strangely enough, every last bit of equipment was still on board, save the typical handgun issues and ammunition that would probably have been carried on the Bravos' persons.

            Barry rubbed at his short red beard with one hand, puzzled. Enrico would have ordered the group to stay on the helicopter under normal circumstances. Had he taken the team to investigate on foot without a working escape vehicle? Barry sincerely hoped not; Enrico was bright, but Barry knew Enrico had been looking to prove himself to Wesker, Enrico being second in command. But getting himself killed was too probable for Enrico to have risked it. Warning bells rang in Barry's head that something was very, very wrong.

            "What now, sir?" Chris asked Captain Wesker. Even in the growing darkness, Wesker's perpetual sunglasses covered his eyes. Arms crossed over his chest, Wesker stared at the 'copter, his expression unreadable. He was silent a few moments before he replied.

            "Split up," Wesker said finally. "Look for any signs of a struggle, tracks, shell casings—any clues of where the Bravos might have gone. Let's find them fast, before Vickers sees his own shadow and wets himself."

            The Alphas smiled grimly at his joke, but no one could bring themselves to laugh. They were well aware that if anything had happened to the Bravos upon leaving the chopper, the Alphas might fare no better in the forest. The cannibal killers and the other attacks, the ones committed by wild dogs... Animal or human, serial killers were nothing to joke about.

            Chris and Jill headed south, Chris mimicking her movements: examining the grass for signs of the Bravos' passing before stepping on it, then flattening it as she moved to peer beneath it for blood or shells or footprints. Barry tried the technique and soon gave up; his huge feet didn't want to cooperate with the delicate steps. Joseph simply aimed a flashlight among the weeds and trotted east, while Barry continued west.

            Barry bent to examine something—a small, dark object half-hidden in the grass. Shell-casing, nine-millimeter, probably a Bravos' Beretta. He looked up and saw a bit of dented weeds; excitedly he realized they'd been running and firing at something behind them as they went. Both upset and relieved, he started to call out to report his claim when Joseph yelled, "Hey! Over here!"

            He turned and ran towards the sound of Joseph's voice eagerly, Wesker not far behind. Chris and Jill jogged up beside them as Joseph grinned and reached down to pull something from the ground.

            However, when Joseph turned to look at his find more closely, his eyes widened in shock, then horror. It was obviously a handgun, and Barry could just make out that it was one of the S.T.A.R.S. issues. Joseph lifted it clear from the weeds, and then the other Alphas could see what else Joseph had discovered.  
A hand gripped the gun still, the skin obviously Caucasian, the fingers strong and supple, male probably. The arm had been roughly hacked off at the wrist, blood still dripping from the hand, a bit of bone visible. Joseph yelped and dropped it quickly.

            They heard the sound too late to do anything: a ferocious, low growl, growing in volume by the second. Joseph turned slowly towards the trees at his back, and then something flew from the darkness towards the stunned, petrified Alpha team member.

            Barry's first impression was that it was a skinned wolf, bloody muscle covering its body, slimy red patches frequenting the creature's figure more than fur. One of its ears was nearly gone, and large, sharp teeth bared in a snarl as it flew at Joseph. Joseph screamed as the monster bit into flesh, then gurgled into silence as the... the THING tore out his throat. Barry felt his gorge rise as he realized it was eating the now-dead flesh of Barry's former teammate.

            "JOSEPH!" Jill screamed.

            Big mistake. The creature looked up, blood and gristle dripping from its fangs. Barry, shaking away the numbing fear and horror that threatened to overpower him, brought up his gun and fired right into the chest of the animal.  It flew backwards, landing heavily on its side.

            And then, as Barry watched in disgust and shock, it got back up, snarling at the remaining members of the Alpha Team once more...

            At that moment, Barry realized the second big mistake: the noise they'd made was attracting more of the monsters. Even as he turned and ran back west, the others following, he could hear the howls of more wild animals giving chase.

            He led the way back to their helicopter, west and north of the Bravos'.  Barry could hear the animals' pursuit over the sound of the chopper's blades. Brad had kept the 'copter warm; thankfully, the man had had the wits to be completely prepared for flight. He'd probably heard the screams and the gunshot, the doors were all closed, _thanks for making it easy on us, Vickers..._

            Brad's eyes widened almost comically, and instinctively Barry turned, bringing his Beretta up once more. At least dozen of the skinned-looking creatures were closing on them.

            "NO! DON'T GO!" Chris shouted at the top of his lungs.

            Brad had yanked at the controls, and Barry turned in time to watch in disbelief Chicken Heart Vickers flew the chopper up into the sky, and was gone.

            "You fucking piece of shit!"

            Barry cast a startled look at Jill as she yelled the words and fired a single shot after the helicopter. Then she ran.

            Barry and the others followed, an icy chill gripping his heart as Wesker took the lead. They were dead. They might be able to get back to the Bravos' chopper before the monsters reached them, but the dogs were fast, and they'd end up surrounded. Even if they made it, the 'copter was broken, and Joseph was the only one who could have gotten the damn thing back in the air!

            Wesker must have thought the same thing, because they continued west, instead of back to the Bravos' helicopter. In turn, the Alphas turned and ran backwards, firing at the monsters as they went, hoping to hold them off.  Barry couldn't help but think of the tracks he'd seen heading in this same direction, more likely than not from the Bravos, wondering if they were dead like Joseph, eaten by some mutant canines as they tried to run…

            "Out!" Chris and Wesker shouted almost at the same moment. Barry turned to cover them, aiming carefully at what looked to be maybe a half-dozen of the canine-like monsters still behind them. He stumbled on the clumps of weeds, swearing loudly as all three of his well-aimed shots at the creatures hit the dirt instead. Jill caught his eye and spun, skillfully running as she held her Beretta in a two-handed combat grip. By the time she was empty, Wesker had reloaded, and Barry concentrated on his own speed instead, knowing the others were more than capable of at least holding the monsters back.

            "Jill! Run for that house!" Chris shouted, then took up firing for Jill with Wesker.

            She turned back around, saw where he meant, and nodded. Barry followed her gaze...

            A house—a mansion, really, at least four times the size of Barry's own two-story Tudor—was only about thirty yards to the right. Barry veered towards it, wondering wildly whose house it might be. Though the grass around it was unkempt, it wasn't boarded up, so it couldn't be the Umbrella mansion... but there were no other mansions or even houses out here, none that he'd heard about, at least. The house certainly didn't LOOK abandoned, and Barry could see several lights shining through the windows. Jill reached it first and flung open the doors; thank God it was unlocked. Barry turned to fire now, letting Chris and Wesker pass. His last shot missed his mark, and he threw himself inside as one of the monsters leaped at him, close enough so that he could smell its breath stinking like rotted meat as Barry fell to the floor of the mansion. Wesker and Jill barely got the doors closed in time; a thud sounded against the heavy oak doors as Chris slid the bolt home.

            Barry climbed to his feet, staring in amazement at the large open hall before him, a massive staircase leading to the second floor directly across from the front doors. He recognized the red Oriental carpet running from the door to the stairs from a glimpse of one of Angela's magazines immediately: it was the Umbrella mansion, no doubt about it. "What is this?" he said, more to himself than to the others.

            "Wow," Wesker said appreciatively. "What a mansion!"

            Barry shot the captain an incredulous look, feeling sickened and exhausted. Shocked, he saw Wesker was actually smiling! What the hell was his problem? Joseph was dead, the Bravos were missing...

            Wesker's features settled back into the cold, expressionless mask the captain always wore, a frown on his face, and Barry wondered if he hadn't misinterpreted the captain's meaning, maybe he had meant to be sarcastic...

            BAM!

            "What the—" Jill muttered, turning towards one of the sets of double doors that branched off from the hall. There was no question what the sound was, however: a gunshot. Barry recalled his discovery of what was probably the Bravos' trail; they were probably all in the house! Before he could say anything, however, Chris interrupted.

            "I'll go and check," Chris offered instantly. Barry saw the angry flush that stained Chris's cheeks; Chris had tried to insist this mansion was suspicious from the beginning, and now Barry could tell his old friend's worry for the Bravos was the only thing that was keeping him from screaming "I told you so!" at the top of his lungs like a twelve-year-old.

            "Okay," Wesker answered calmly. "We'll stay in the hall, in case of an emergency."

            Once again, Wesker's choice of words struck Barry as odd. Was he imagining things? Or was the captain...

_            What? Not surprised? Not crying like a two-year-old about Joseph? Focus, Barry! The captain's no happier about this than Joseph is!_

            Still, he caught Jill's questioning glance at the captain; apparently she felt the same as Barry, that it made more sense to stick together. Chris didn't notice, however; he was already started for the door. Jill caught his eye, but Barry just shrugged; what could he say?

            "Chris?" Jill said suddenly.

            He stopped, turning to look at her, then at the worry on Barry's face. Jill shot Barry a hopeless look as Chris looked at her expectantly. "Take care," she said finally, nibbling on her lower lip.

            Chris grinned and waved, and Barry felt a bit better. Chris was a professional, and a damned good one.  Chris would be fine.

            He hoped.


	4. Something Stinks

Chapter Four The Cannibal Killers 

            Chris shut the blue double doors behind him and simply leaned against them for a while, trying to control his rage. People were dead, and the Bravos were missing, and as it had happened Chris had sworn up and down this mansion was something that needed to by personally checked out by the S.T.A.R.S. No one had listened, and now his friends and teammates were suffering just as the citizens of Raccoon had; if only someone had listened to him!

            He swallowed, then breathed deeply, forcing the anger down. Chris had a job to do, and that meant investigating this place and finding the source of that gunshot. And the Bravos.

            Chris gazed around the room in disgust as he noted how well it had been kept up. It was a dining room, overlooked by a second-floor balcony, the long table set for maybe twelve people. A large fireplace beneath a coat-of-arms was at the far end, shrouded in shadows by large, circular columns. The room was filled with the echoing sound of a ticking grandfather clock, and the only other door was just past it. Chris started forward, but then something on the table caught his eye.

            Dust. Maybe a month's worth or so, coating everything: the clock, the table, even the table's plates and utensils and candelabras, as though one day everyone had been ready to sit down to dinner and then just disappeared.

            Uneasily, Chris started for the door, a sense of nervousness replacing the intense fury inside him. It felt like he was in some haunted house or something, the only beings within ghosts ready to drink his blood...

            "Like the cannibal killers," Chris said thoughtfully. "A month's worth of dust... when the murders started."

            He froze suddenly, listening. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he'd heard a moan, or something like it, but that stupid clock was covering the noise...

            Chris checked to be sure his gun was fully loaded, un-holstering it. Grimly he moved towards the door past the clock, which stood about an inch open.

            He paused in the dimly-lit hallway, listening. There were two doors on the opposite wall, and a larger one at the end of the corridor. To his left was an alcove, hidden from his view. Keeping his eye on it, he moved towards the closest door, which was open like the first. He assumed whatever had made the sound had gone through the door, and stepped inside the green-wallpapered hall on the other side.

            The clock could still be heard, so Chris shut the door behind him to block out the irritating noise. He started slowly down the passage, gun ready.

            Just ahead and to the right was a small turn, and Chris saw something moving in the shadows. He smiled in relief as he realized it was a person.

            "Hello?" he called loudly, praying it was one of the Bravos.

            As the man began to turn, a foul stench met his nostrils, something familiar and disquieting. It took him a second to place the smell. It was like rotted fruit and dead skunks, mingling horribly together, making Chris involuntarily wrinkle his nose as he remembered where he'd smelled it before: when his unit in the Air Force had been overseas, and had made a forced landing in a country experiencing civil war. They'd reached a village... and discovered that the small settlement had been ravaged, dead bodies littering the streets, the decaying bodies of men, women and children alike baking in the hot sun. Chris had never been able to forget the smell any more than he could forget the death and destruction.

            As the fetid stink nearly overpowered him, the man stumbled out into the light. Chris stared at him in shock and horror.

            The man's skin was rotted, parts of it actually green with mold, small chunks falling off as he raised his arms and weaved unsteadily forward, as though drunk. Splotches of blood were all over his tattered clothing and cracked skin. His left ear was a bloody stump, and one of his fingers was missing entirely. His eyes were milky-white with cataracts.

            As Chris gaped at him, the man—no, _creature_—moaned eagerly, reaching for Chris. Chris shook off the spell of disgusted terror and raised the Beretta, shouting, "Freeze!"

            The creature didn't seem to hear him. "FREEZE!" Chris repeated, his voice hoarse. When the monstrous being was only a few yards away, Chris fired.

            The shot struck the guy full in the chest, rocking him back a little. Still it kept coming, and Chris fired again, and again, the next two shots creating the same bloody, ragged holes in its chest, but not stopping it in the slightest.

            The creature was only five feet away now, and Chris aimed higher, for the brain. A gaping hole appeared in its forehead, and it finally went down. Revolted, horror-struck, Chris circled the fallen corpse, pointing the gun at its prone form.

            It was dead.

            He sank against another door, fighting the urge to throw up. Unable to stop staring at the thing on the floor at his feet, Chris saw that blood, dried and congealed, was caked around its mouth. "I'll be damned," he whispered. "One of the cannibals."

            Grimacing, he kicked the body with his foot, turning it over, not wanting to see its bloody lips and gums. The whole scene reminded him of a horror flick with zombies.

            He turned away, rattling the doorknob behind him. Locked. Chris bent down, examining a carving of a sword etched by the keyhole...

            ... and then something grabbed his ankle.

            With a yelp, Chris went sprawling to the floor in front of the monster he killed, his Beretta flying clear to the other end of the hall. Spinning around, he saw the corpse, still alive, pulling Chris's boot to its mouth, jaws open like a little kid trying to prepare for a huge bite of cereal.

            "NO!"

            Chris kicked at it with his other foot, knocking away its surprisingly strong grip and a couple more fingers in the process. Scrambling to his feet, he backed away, watching in horror as it pulled its body towards him fervently.

            Turning, he ran for his gun, scooping it up and spinning back around to aim.

            "Unh."

            The groan to his left was accompanied by a shuffling sound, and he swung his arm to bring his gun to bear on the new threat. Sure enough, two more of the creatures were turning towards him, arms stretched blindly in front of them.  
            _Crap, no,_ Chris thought wildly. _First didn't die after four shots, that's at least twelve for these two, maybe more, don't have the ammo..._

            _Door!_

            He grasped at the door handle next to him, relieved to find it unlocked. He half-jumped, half-fell through the entryway, barely catching himself before he hit the floor. He kicked the door shut hurriedly, gulping huge breaths of air into his lungs with relief.

            Until he saw another decaying being at the bend in the hall in front of him.


	5. Wesker Disappears

The Story of Resident Evil (Game One)  
_Chapter Five_

Four shots. Jill's breath caught in her throat, even as Wesker swore and said, "Jill, can you go..."

                "I'm going with you," Barry said firmly. "Chris is an old partner, you know."

                Wesker sighed, then nodded. "How much ammo do you have?"

                "Twenty shots," Barry replied, just as Jill said, "Fifteen."

                "Okay. Vickers might send help. I'll wait here."

                She and Barry head for the entrance Chris had gone through. "Stay alert," Wesker called after them. Jill nodded briskly, then jogged to the blue double doors, Barry close behind.

                "A dining room," Barry said, moving deeper into the room as Jill shut the doors behind them. It was a grand, beautiful room; a few of the candlesticks would fetch maybe a hundred bucks at a pawn shop, definitely pure gold...

                Jill shook the thought away quickly, walking along the table and checking the floor for shell casings. All of a sudden Barry shouted from the far end of the room, by the fireplace. "What is it?" she asked, alarmed.

                "Blood." Barry looked up at her, his face pale beneath the reddish beard as he knelt by a large red stain on the floor. "Jill, check the door over there; see if you can find any more clues. I'll be examining this," he said, glancing around the tile for any other drops of blood. "God, I hope this is NOT Chris's blood."

                "I doubt it," she said, trying to sound convincing. "Why wouldn't he come back to the hall, then, if he was injured?"

                He sighed, moving around a marble column to check the other side. Jill felt her heart sink as she went to the door by a loudly-ticking grandfather clock.

                She swept her gun left and right, checking the dimly-lit hallway for anything that might be threatening. An alcove was off to her left, and looked slightly better lit than the rest of the corridor; three separate doors were to her right. Frowning, Jill cocked her head. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she'd heard a soft noise from the alcove. Moving cautiously, gun ready, she headed towards the sound. "Chris?" she said softly as she turned the corner.

                Her gun fell limply to her side as the offshoot came into view. A body was on the floor, a bloody stump where its head should have been. The head itself was maybe five feet away, covered in gore and blood. Worst of all, a man was crouched over the corpse, his teeth tearing into the stomach of the dead body. Jill gave a strangled, horrified cry, the stench of decay and rot filling her nostrils and making her all the more weak-kneed. The man stopped its chewing at the sound, and turned towards her.

                Her eyes widened in terror. The man's skin was cracked and blistered, and his eyes were wide and sightless. Blood stained his lips and jaw like some demonic, dead circus clown. "Barry!" she screamed, as it stood, stretching out his arms to her like a sleepwalker. She backed away, back down the hall, petrified.

                "BARRY! It's a monster!"

                Barry appeared at the dining room doorway, bewildered, staring at her in confusion; the look on his face would have made her laugh if she hadn't been scared to death. "Monster?" He turned, and started in shock at the sight of the creature slowly shambling towards Jill. "Let me take care of this!" he roared, motioning her behind him. He raised his gun without a second thought and shot twice, the rounds going deep into the guy's collar bone. The freak kept coming, barely staggering as the shots bit into its rotting body. Barry's third shot finally stopped it... and blew its head into fragments with a wet popping sound. Barry grimaced. "What IS it?" he moaned, disgusted beyond belief.

                "Kenneth..." Jill whispered. He whirled, staring at her in alarm. "Kenneth was killed too," she managed, "by that creature..."

                She gestured down the hall at the alcove, and Barry dashed around the corner.  The sick feeling in her stomach grew as she heard Barry whisper, "No," and slump against a wall, turning away from Kenneth's figure. Jill had only recognized the Bravo team member at the last second, and had been too distracted to think about it. She watched with pity as Barry punched the wall with one fist, then stepped over to Kenneth's body. He returned with three clips and handed two to her, pocketing the other. "Where's Chris?" he muttered hoarsely.

                "I don't know," she said. She nodded at the doors down the hall and Barry trotted off to check them. The door closest to the dining room was locked, but even as she opened her mouth to tell Barry, he said, "Locked. Both of them."

                "WHAT?!" Jill pulled harder on the doorknob. "Where'd he go, then?"

                "I dunno," Barry replied softly. "Maybe..."

                Jill followed his gaze to the creature at her feet. "No," she whispered firmly. "If he was dead, his body would be lying there, too, Barry."

                "Then where the hell is he, Jill?" Barry snapped. "What, he vanished into thin air?"

                "If he didn't, then his body did," Jill said peevishly.

                Barry blew out his breath gustily. "I know. I just..."

                Jill swallowed painfully. "Let's report this to Wesker."

                "WESKER!"

                Jill gazed dubiously around the empty main hall, her heart heavy. Wesker was no where in sight, and the hall didn't have many places to hide. "Help me look for him, Jill," Barry called.

                She sighed, heading for the shadows behind the large staircase. A quick glance revealed absolutely nothing, but she searched the small, dark areas between the columns anyway. She came out on the other side of the stairs, tugging at one of the two doors. It was locked. "Find anything, Jill?" Barry asked.

                "Nothing," Jill replied dismally. "What is going on? I don't get it. Why would he leave? It doesn't make sense!" she nearly shouted in frustration.

                "Well, it can't be helped," Barry said grimly. "We should split up, look for any clues. I'll check the dining room again. Maybe I can find Chris."

                "Okay. I'll check the door on the opposite side."

                Barry sighed, his broad shoulders sagging. "This mansion is gigantic. We could get into trouble if we get lost. Maybe we should stay together."  He looked up at her, concerned.

                Jill knew she must still look green from seeing Kenneth's body. She shook her head firmly. "No, we need to cover a lot of ground. That... zombie or whatever was slow. We can take them, and if you find Chris, maybe he'll have the floor plans Angela gave him. We'll just meet back here in an hour or so, okay?"

                Barry nodded. "All right. If you're sure you're up to it, we'll meet back here. If something happens, just come back to this hall and wait. And..." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, black cloth case. "Jill, here's your lock picks. Probably be handy if you, the Master of Unlocking, take them with you." He shrugged and smiled at her. "I never had much luck with them."

                Jill grinned, accepting the case from him gratefully. When she'd first joined the S.T.A.R.S., she'd worried that they would snub her for her past as a common thief; she'd spent most of her life ripping off high-security homes and businesses. The team was a bright group, however, and was anxious to share any knowledge related to the job. Barry had asked to borrow her old set of picks a few weeks ago, but he hadn't even been able to open his cheap bedroom door lock. "Thanks," Jill said warmly, opening the case and running a hand over the picks almost lovingly. "Maybe I'll need 'em."

                He nodded, then turned to the dining room. "Meet back here in an hour," he said. "This time, someone'll be here."

                Jill sighed as he shut the dining room door behind him, still feeling worried and sickened by Kenneth's attacker... not to mention the fact that Chris had completely disappeared. She thought for a second, debating whether or not to actually go through the door she'd said. She'd be back in an hour to meet Barry, so it didn't really matter; maybe Wesker had gone upstairs?

                No. The only reason he would have done that was if he'd heard something, and even if that was the case, Wesker would have waited for them to return. Most likely (well, more likely, because the idea that Wesker had a good reason to have left at all was UNlikely), Wesker would have stayed on the ground floor.

                She went to the other side door she hadn't checked, pleased to note that it wasn't locked. The room beyond was poorly lighted, with a stature of a woman holding a water pitcher on her shoulder, an odd metal step-ladder, and a wooden chest that was shoved in front of an open door. She doubted Wesker would have blocked the door with a piece of furniture behind him, so she opted for the second door, which was closed.

                And locked.

                "What the hell?!" Jill shouted, angrily kicking her foot against the solid oak. She plopped down on the metal step-ladder, glaring murderously at the door and trying to force herself to calm down.

                "Be smart, Jill," an internal voice whispered. "Fighting's not the only way to get through this. It's a puzzle, and you can't always physically knock the crap out of a puzzle. Think."

                Jill smiled, instantly feeling better. Her father had told her that when she was younger, when she had blacked a boy's eye in sixth grade for teasing her. Her father had told her that everything had a reason, an underlying meaning, and she needed to figure out what it was and put an end to it. In the sixth grade, that was a simple solution: the boy had liked her, and that's why he'd teased her, stupid as it was.  Psychology was a much better way to solve a problem, and she'd kept that philosophy close to her heart long after her father was dead.

                Slowly, she thought through all the possibilities of why the team kept vanishing behind locked doors. The simplest one was that the door simply locked itself when someone went through; plenty of locks did that.  And Wesker must have gone through one of the two locked doors on this side of the hall, or else she and Barry would have seen him.  If he hadn't, then she'd wait for Barry and they'd head upstairs together. Deciding that, since she was already in front of this door, she'd go through it first, and then try to pick the lock on the other if the Captain still hadn't showed. She settled onto her heels, crouching low as she examined the lock. A sword was etched by the key plate, and she filed that information away for later. Taking out her picks, she went to work, and the lock soon clicked open easily.

                With a sigh, Jill squared her shoulders determinedly.  Then she stepped through the door, ready to do her job.


End file.
